


Care and Feeding

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Heroes RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Sparky77</p>
    </blockquote>





	Care and Feeding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sparky77

 

 

It's one in the morning and Milo can't sleep. He's cold and he's bored and he's antsy, something he can't name crawling under his skin. He's wide awake at one in the morning and leaning on his kitchen counter waiting for a pot of sauted vegetables to cool enough for him to puree them into soup.

He's making soup at one in the morning because, really, what else is he going to do?

He'd been out of hazelnut oil so he'd used a light olive oil instead. He hadn't had dry white wine, but he'd had just enough of a Riesling left in the back of his fridge from God knows when. It hadn't turned, but it had been there a while. He knows he hadn't been the one to buy it, and he hasn't had his friends over for dinner in nearly a month.

He substituted here and there, but he had the carrots and the celery, the orange juice and the spices, and that's what mattered.

Originally he'd had a wild rice pilaf in mind, but he hadn't had any fresh Granny Smith apples and he was too grumpy with the cold to venture out for them. It had been raining for two days straight, LA's version of a winter wonderland.

He waits for the vegetables to cool, purees them in four batches, puts the puree back into a pan to reheat. He thinks maybe he needs to get a life. Only, he likes his life--likes his house and his job and likes experimenting with recipes in the middle of the night. He's never going to do anything scandalous, is never going to end up as a lead item on Perez Hilton's blog--and thank God for that.

He tastes the soup. It needs more nutmeg. And a little texture. He adds nutmeg and slices some carrots and scallions, gives them a quick flash fry before adding them to the puree.

It's not that his life is boring, really, it's just that it's calm. He knows what he wants, knows what he likes, knows he doesn't have to do anything crazy to get it.

His doorbell rings and he closes his eyes. So, OK, maybe he's doing one thing that's pretty fucking scandalous, but at least he's not doing it in the public eye.

His doorbell rings again, and then he hears the key in the lock. He stirs the soup slowly as it comes to a boil.

"Ho, ho, ho," Adrian says, his footsteps heavy and confident in the hall. "I rang the bell."

"I heard you," Milo says, turning around. "That's why I gave you the key. Taste this, " he says, holding up the spoon.

Adrian doesn't even ask what it is, just leans in and tastes and, in the same movement, raises up again and presses his mouth to Milo's. "Hi," he says. "Orange carrot soup?"

"I couldn't sleep."

Adrian licks his lower lip. "I like it."

"Hungry?"

"Not really."

"Me neither. It should reheat well. Why are you here?"

Adrian laughs and leans against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest casually as he smiles.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just, it's two o'clock in the morning. Why aren't you...home?"

"Oh, she kicked me out. I was getting stir crazy with the rain, she told me to come over here and drive you crazy, instead."

Milo nods. He'd actually hoped for half a second, hoped that when Adrian said he'd been kicked out that he really meant it, meant it for good. He feels like an asshole for thinking that. He loves Adrian's wife. He loves Adrian's kids. He just...well.

He has a boyfriend whose wife knows about him and thinks it's cute or funny or, hell, he doesn't know what she thinks. She's not threatened, not worried about Adrian ever leaving her, and logic tells Milo that it doesn't necessarily mean that he's not important, but he's never really run on logic.

Adrian sighs and steps forward, cups the back of Milo's head in his palm. His body is warm and right there against him, the smell of his skin makes Milo a little dizzy. "Stop it," Adrian whispers, touching their foreheads together.

"Stop what?" he asks, sliding his arms around Adrian's waist, where they fit so perfectly.

"This whole broody actor thing you're doing."

Milo wants to say he's not being broody, but he smiles instead. Adrian should be a complication, something he doesn't need or want, but instead he fits so easily into Milo's life, like there had been an Adrian-shaped hole before that he'd never even noticed. Where there should be chaos, instead Adrian brings quiet joy.

"Who says I'm brooding?" he asks, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"I do," Adrian whispers before leaning in for a kiss.

"I'm not brooding," he says, tracing the scars on Adrian's cheek with his fingertip. "And what are you wearing?"

Adrian laughs hard and leans in to nip at Milo's jaw. "I come over to your house at two in the morning and you're worried about what I'm wearing?"

"You're wearing a Cosby sweater. In my house. And I'm touching it."

"It's not contagious."

"It might be." He eyes the sweater with distaste. It's bright blue with squiggles of yellow and green and red all over it. Calling it terrible would be an understatement.

Adrian grins. "I should probably take it off. Just in case."

Milo nods. "Yeah." His life is calm and simple except for Adrian, vibrant as a box of crayons with physics-defying hair and truly atrocious clothing and occasionally a beard that could house several families of goldfinch. With a wife who adores Milo as much as he adores her, who doesn't mind that Adrian gives him the sweetest, deepest kisses he's ever had in his life.

"I think we should go to your room," Adrian says, his voice resonating in Milo's chest and making him want so bad he's dizzy from it.

Milo nods and turns the stove off, doesn't even bother putting the soup in the fridge. He may still be wide awake in the middle of the night, but cooking is really the last thing on his mind.

 


End file.
